This Dirty Old Town
by ebonyandyew
Summary: Sara O'Byron has a talent, a rather peculiar talent. She'd just rather not use it. As a personal preference.
1. Just Another Rat

"Sara! Sara O'Byron?" A voice asked from downstairs in the bar.

I stomped down the stairs none too happily.

It was St. Patrick's for shit's sake, I was trying to sleep. Did the man not read the sign? Bar was down stairs, sleeping, night shift bartender upstairs.

"What's it t' you? I asked, stopping a few steps down.

The baby faced, dark haired, WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant), flipped through a little leather bound notebook.

"I heard you're kind of the one to come to for information in this neighborhood." He said clearing his throat.

The man was obviously uncomfortable.

_Made sense since his accent was vaguely Southern. He's dressed well enough for a crowded city. No overt signs of a wallet, cheap watch, old cell phone. You learn not to flaunt when surrounded by thieves. Big city boy then. His accent is soft enough to rule out Atlanta, New Orleans and Nashville. _

"Raleigh or Charlotte?" I asked, making it all the way down the stairs.

I have a kind of talent, you could say, for things like that. The little observations, the notation of quirks and habits. It's why Butcher was here in the first place. Word had apparently spread that I was some kind of Bostonian Sherlock Holmes.

"Charlotte." He answered uneasily.

"Hmm, interesting. Look, sorry, but I can't help you. If you want something stiffer than sweet tea you've got the right place, but not if you want information."

The guy shook his head.

"I- I think you misunderstand, I'm Detective James Butcher, I'm looking into the death of William Murphy. I'm wondering if you've heard anything?"

"I've heard plenty, but what the hell does the Boston P.D want with a bartender?"

He ignored my rather pointed question.

"Jack Moran ever stop by?"

"Yeah, Jackie always pays his tab, keeps his head down, goes home when his wife calls."

"Did you know William Murphy?"

"Since I was seven." I muttered.

"Do you know of anyone who had any problems with William?"

"No problems per say, he just didn't have a lot of common sense." I said with a dry laugh. "But he wasn't- He was a good kid."

Butcher nodded sympathetically, but I caught the slight roll of the eye and the exasperated sigh.

It made my blood boil. This was just another rat in the gutter to him.

"Is your uncle home?" Butcher asked.

"No, and he'd appreciate if y'd get out of his place now." I said with a dry smile.

"Ms. O'Byron, I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this, that's all."

"Jimmy, you're a rookie detective, working your first of many gangland murders that you will have to slog through during your tenure in this accursed city, and you're putting on a good show, but we both know that you have a saint's chance in hell of finding who did this." I paused and took a steadying inhale. "You talk to his mother?" I asked.

Butcher shook his head.

"When you do, call him Liam. He was always Liam to her."

Butcher awkwardly handed me his card with muttered condolences before hurrying out the worn oak.

_This one hit far too close to home._

I exhaled with a sigh and went down another flight of stairs into the pub, grabbing a beer from behind the old and worn bar. I yanked the top off with my teeth and spat it into some corner.

Dignified, I know.

But I had gotten used to this kind of low level life, really it was where I belonged, with my father being who he was and my mother who she is. I suppose it was inescapable.

I examined the label with a grunt.

Of course, I had to choose the expensive stuff that would come right out of my wages. Well, not directly, as my uncle refused to charge me for my frequent raids on his inventory, but I still paid it back.

McGinnty's wasn't a sinking ship, but it was exactly a lucrative venture either.

I leaned my elbows against the bar and kneaded my forehead.

I hadn't the foggiest why I lied to Butcher. Well, not lied, omitted the truth.

Liam _was_ in with the wrong people, or had been, I corrected myself with a sigh.

The wealthy and rather violent kind of wrong people.

If Butcher was asking after Jack Moran, then he was catching on to that fact. _Maybe he would solve this_, I shrugged. Mob business gone wrong was easy enough to write off. Just another example of how the city was slowly falling back into its old, bad habits.

I took a swing out of the bottle.

Liam had been found in an alley two blocks from here. That placed him well within Trinity territory by my mental map. So it wasn't trespassing, it was a message.

And when I said mental map, I meant it in the literal sense.

One of the blessings of a nearly photographic memory.

_If it was a message, it would be answered swiftly. _

Rory Buchanan, the man in charge of this quarter, immigrated from Ireland fifteen years ago and rose up through the ranks to become first in the line of succession once Michael O'Flannery finally decided to up and die. He did it all in the course of seven years. Buchanan was a determined man, a capable man, and he didn't take it lightly when one of his own was killed. It had nearly torn the city in two the last time this happened.

I took another swig.

Now the question was, who sent the message?

I sat on a bar stool, musing for a good hour or so, before cursing the whole endeavor.

Every solution I had figured was possible, and that was the problem.

I needed more information.

_Wait. _

What the hell was I doing?

Butcher was an incompetent, arrogant, _police officer_.

When the hell did I ever help the boys in blue?

I rolled my eyes and chugged the last quarter of my beer. I watched as the early evening light filtered through the tiny, high-set windows, making the dust motes transform into some kind of metaphor. It floated here and there, listing from left to right.

Liam didn't deserve to be dead.

Butcher certainly wasn't going to find out who did this on his own.

I reached for the phone grudgingly and dialed the number on the embossed card.

"Hello?" A voice asked.

"Hi Jimmy, you said to call if I had anything-"


	2. Flannigan's Ball

Later that evening, when I reassured myself that the copious amount of Guinness I had drunk over the course of the afternoon was really, quite justifiable, I was standing behind the bar with my uncle, leaning against the liquor cabinet that covered the back wall, contemplating which of the normal patron's would be able to give me the best information.

My uncle Billy, Doc to everyone else, was my mother's older brother. He also had some form of Turrets that made him bellow "Fuck! Arse!" at the beginning and end of every sentence, respectively. He was an odd duck, to say the least, but he gave me a job and roof over my head and hell, sometimes he even fed me when he remembered he couldn't just run on a liquid diet of whiskey and fermented barley juice. I loved the old coot.

"To, Fuck! Liam. Arse!" My uncle stuttered, pouring himself a shot and downing it.

"Speakin' of Liam, you know anything besides what the papers wrote?" I asked, eyeing the familiar flow of people into the basement level bar.

"N-no, but there's a feelin' Fuck! tha' Arse!-"

"Oh, I intend t' " A gravelly Irish voice laughed.

"Ah, MacManus, see you've been fired again." I sighed, leveling a glare at both of the brothers.

Connor and Murphy's eyes got wide as they took their accustomed stools.

"Oh come on boys, you should be used to it by now." I said, grabbing a bottle of Jameson off of the top shelf. It was a bit of a reach, as I'm all of about five feet with a few inches tacked on out of pity, but I managed to get the bottle down without smashing my skull in, so mission accomplished.

By now, the buzz of the crowd was beginning to grate my ears.

Within a matter of seconds I had discovered Tom O'Leary was cheating on his wife, again, Mikey had finally grown a pair and asked Jenny out, and the college frat boys at the end of the bar would "definitely fuck my brains out" if they had the chance.

Which they never would.

I made a note to make sure the hem of my green shirt was firmly over the waist of my jeans the next time I went around to them.

"I don't thin' I'll e'er get used to you bein' some kind o' Irish Sherlock Holmes." Murhpy muttered under his breath.

"Scotch-Irish to you." I corrected, setting their glasses down.

"So wha' was i' this time, Blondie? A peculiar defeated lilt t' the way we walked in? The fain' aroma a' shame?" Connor mocked.

"The clock, dipshit. You're two hours early."

Both of their mouths formed a comical "o".

_Also, the smell of incense from when you went to six am mass hasn't been completely drowned out by cigarette smoke, meaning you only had one break. You're floor boss allows two. Both of you have poorly hidden bruises approximately five hours old, coinciding with the approximate time most factory workers take their first break, also meaning you got into yet another brawl. You've had two warnings already. Oh, and Murphy's pink slip peeked out of his front pocket when he sat down, _I added in my head.

I popped the top off of two stouts and slid them down the bar to the frat boys dressed all in green.

"Well, as we a' now unemployed, I say ye drink with us." Connor said, gesturing towards me with his whiskey.

"Fine, but only because I need it." I conceded before turning to my other customers.

Doc finally had the good sense to turn on the jukebox.

At least the music would drown out the mindless chatter that was threatening to set off an atomic bomb in my mind.

I kept listening for that one bit of sense in the noise. The string of words that would help me solve the puzzle I had gotten myself into.

_**In the town of Milton one**_

_**Brian Flannigan battered away till his money was spent**_

_**Then he hit a big one and felt like a man again,**_

_**Bought a three decker with two floors for rent**_

_**He threw a big party for friends**_

_**And relations at a grand old place called Florian Hall**_

_**And if you'll just listen I'll make your eyes glisten**_

_**To the rows and the ructions of Flannigan's ball.**_

As it was St. Patrick's Day, there were a fair number of tourists sitting along the edges, not wanting to make it too apparent they weren't used to the grit and grime that came with a place like this. Once the music started, a few poked their heads up, as if expecting River Dance to burst out of the back room.

I bit back laughter, _if only they knew what actually went on back there_, mostly a lot of puking and a fair number of muggings.

It came with the line of work.

_**Six long months I spent in Quincy,**_

_**Six long months doing nothing at all,**_

_**Six long months I spent in Quincy**_

_**Learning to dance for Flannigan's ball**_

_**I stepped out and I stepped in again,**_

_**I stepped out and I stepped in again,**_

_**I stepped out and I stepped in again**_

_**Learning to dance for Flannigan's ball.**_

"Oy! Barmaid!" The MacManus' called.

"Yes, drunken louts?" I yelled back over my shoulder.

"Rocco needs a stiff one!"

"Rocco can wait!" I growled, slinging a newbie what was probably his first and last Harp. The crowd was beginning to swell.

_Someone had to know something. _

"That hurt sugartits." The greasy haired, pox marked Italian yelled over the din and the music.

My teeth involuntarily ground together to an almost painful degree of force.

One of these days, I would finally snap and rip that asshole a new one, but today was not that day. I heard the concussive sound of two hands smacking the same face as Murphy and Connor slapped Rocco upside the head simultaneously.

_Back to work_, I thought, and straightened out my tensed shoulders, taking a shot of whiskey.

The idiot had thrown me off of my attempt to get the newbie to talk. Not like he would know anything, but he would give me an in with his friends, and in turn with theirs. Information always worked like that. It was a nebulous web of small strings and connections that always led you where you wanted to go, if you were able to notice them.

A common reel started up and I let myself back into the deluge of conversation that flooded the bar. Eyes closed, I was looking. Searching for a word, a sentence, anything.

Then I heard it.

"The kid, the one o's dead, never should'a-" A voice muttered.

My eyes snapped open.

_Thickly built, older man, bent over his ale and smoking from a pipe. Fingers stiffened with arthritis obvious from even this distance. Clothing worn, but well kept. There's a sense of pride in him still, he'd refused cane in spite of his bum knee, kept straight while the other was bent on a rung of his stool. _

And just like that it was gone. Lost in the muck and mire of humanity that washed up in my uncle's bar every night.

_Pathetic. _

This was all pathetic.

_I was pathetic._

Working off of my uncle's charity, with barely a penny to my name, my car was shit, my apartment a piece of tenant house crap, and I couldn't pick out one fucking, stupid, shit-faced piece of information from an entire bar full of imbeciles so prone to running their mouths they should've made it a sport.

I slammed a bottle I was unloading from a crate of its companions a little too forcefully.

"FUCK." I practically roared as it shattered and spewed its contents. I threw the neck, which I was still holding, to the floor and leaned my elbows against the bar, taking my head in my hands.

A silence fell over the bar as all eyes turned towards me.

"Doc, I'll be out back." I managed to say, ducking out the back door and slumping onto the concrete steps.

I fumbled with the pack of cigarettes I kept in my back pocket just in case and then watched as the white paper end came to red-orange life under my lighter.

I puffed out and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand cursing the salt water as it fell in spite of my efforts.

"Ya' alright there?"

I whipped my head around, expecting my uncle. It was Connor MacManus instead.

"Oh, aye, jus' fine." I sneered, turning my back to him and taking another drag.

"Di' you jus' mock me girlie?" Connor asked, taking a seat next to me.

I rolled my eyes and sniffed, trying to stem the flow of bodily liquids from my face.

"What's really got you upset O'Byron? I know it's nah' the bottles poor fault." He joked.

"I've been offered a job."

"An' wha's wrong with that?"

"By a detective. He wants me to be a consultant on a case. Liam's case."

"So take it, he won't find out for himself in this neighborhood." Connor took out his own cigarette. "Besides, person like you, with what you can do, doesn' belong spendin' the res' of her life whiling away in a place like this. But that ain't th' real reason either."

I flicked my lighter on and offered it to him.

"It's been fifteen years." I muttered to the alley wall, tapping ash off on the iron railing.

Connor raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Since he didn't come home. Cliche, isn't it? Things happening to Irishmen on St. Pat's, that is. You'd think we'd have luck on a day like this."

I stared resolutely ahead, not looking for Connor's reaction. It would've been pity. I hated pity.

"Come 'ere, Sara." Connor said quietly.

I looked at him scathingly.

"Don' make me ask twice." He warned. I gave a small laugh and allowed him to wrap an arm around my shoulders. "Not so bad ain' it?" Connor teased.

"You tell anyone, MacManus, and I'll have your hide."

"Ooh, I'm quakin' at the thought."

"You should be." I muttered. "So, why are you out here MacManus?"

"Honestly? Because in all of my years of knowing ya', you've never yelled fuck as loud as you did back there. There were a few times when it was close, but tonight, tonight blew those righ' out o' the fuckin' water." Connor said with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

I shook my head with a smile. The alcohol had begun to act and added to the exhaustion and emotional turmoil, I ended up with my forehead resting on the side of Connor's neck.

"Should I really take it? The job?" I asked.

"It's up to you, darlin', but you could do a lot of good if you did."

I gave a dry laugh.

"Is there any good left in this town?"

Connor gave a small smile.

"Not much, but its enough. Enough t' defend, protect, figh' for even."

I brought my face level to his, resting my chin on his shoulder.

"You sure you're not some sort of philosopher, under all the layers of beer and cigarettes and foul fucking language?"

"Only fer you darling," Connor teased. " but in all seriousness, you have a gift, na' a curse. A gift that was given to you to help other people, not to drive yerself insane." He heaved a sigh and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. "Yeh have to do somethin' Sara, fifteen years is too long to cage i' all in."

The door swung open behind us, light flooding the darkened alley.

"Oh, I-" Murphy cleared his throat. "Rocco's wonderin' where ye ran off to."

Connor stood up and cuffed his brother in the head.

"Whattareya thinkin' ya fuckin idiot! She's in distress!" He hissed.

"Sorry! I didn't think there was a fucking problem!"

They were doing their best to keep their voices down but it was difficult around a person like me.

"Boys, I'll be fine." I called over my shoulder. "Just give me a moment, alright?" I said quietly. The question was hypothetical and thankfully taken as such. I stretched my legs out and knocked my feet together a few times, looking from the almost burnt down butt of my cigarette to the dusty light of the street lamp at the end of the alley.

_Well, this night is going real well._

I took one last inhale of tobacco and stomped it out against the damp cement.

I really wasn't much of a smoker anyways. It was more of a mechanical motion I could focus on and through. I watched the light from the lamp flicker as people passed under it.

Connor had a point. There was no way in hell Butcher could get information out of these people, and I could. Simple supply and demand. Nothing more. Butcher couldn't possibly know who my father was, he came out of Charlotte. There was nothing behind this besides finding out what happened to Liam.

I stood up and brushed the dirt from the back of my jeans.

"Holy Fuck." was all that I managed once I had opened the back door.


	3. Small Talk With Boris

Shattered glass coated the floor and bodies were flying, bouncing off of the walls as if they were made of rubber.

_Oh goody, a bar fight. Just what this night needed. _

I slammed the door closed and braced myself against it.

By the looks of the three large men swearing in Russian, Doc's lease was finally up.

_I told the old codger not to sign with them._

A body slammed against the door.

_What in the hell was happening in there?_

The sound of more shattering glass, a body being dragged across the floor and then a thump as it was tossed somewhere. Incoherent screams in Russian followed the sound of yet another bottle breaking and the flick of a lighter.

My eyebrows practically shot into my hairline.

_They were setting the Russian on fire. _

"Nope, no, no way in hell I'm cleaning that shit up." I decided as I slammed my shoulder into the door, but the body on the other side was refusing to cooperate. I crashed into the door again and it gave with a bang as it hit the opposite wall. The man that was previously slumped against it gave a groan. I kneeled down next to him.

"Sorry handsome, had to be done." I shrugged, noting the man's bleeding head. _Looks like someone had gone a little too deep into the whiskey. _"Now you close your eyes, and it'll be over shortly."

I stood and peered through the circular glass in the free swinging door that separated the bar from the back room.

"Ere'one alright?" Connor's voice asked, the Russian still on the bar, screaming.

There was the grumble of assurances and Doc's halting yes.

"Actually," I said, swinging the door open, "I'm not alright, in fact, I'm a bit miffed. See, there's a rather large, rather _**on fire**_, man tied to the bar that _I_ have to clean up once all of you assholes and shitheads leave."

"I, oh, tha', well, would ya' rather be cleanin' our brains off th' floor?" Connor stuttered sheepishly.

Murphy murmured something that made Rocco start to cry tears of laughter and Connor to growl at him to shut it if he knew what was good for him.

"Murphy, care to share?" I asked.

"Oh, I was jus' tellin th' boys how lovely ye look tonigh'." Murphy said, elbowing the man next to him. "Wasn' I boys?"

"Oh aye'"

"Lovely."

"Very lovely."

"Exceedin'ly so."

"Be-a-u-tiful, if ya' ask me."

I exhaled angrily and did my best to contain the desire to snap all of their necks like twigs.

"Fine, you lot go home, I'll do all of the clean up as per usual." I waved them off and grabbed a bucket of ice from behind the bar to put out the Russian's ass fire.

"Look, Sara, I'll make this up t' yah, I promise-" Connor started.

"Go home MacManus, leave the work to the adults."

"Come on Con, leave 'er be." Murphy told his twin, holding the door open. Connor took one look back and left with the rest of them. Doc gave a stiff nod and scurried after.

I pursed my lips and considered the man now tied to the bar.

_Russian mob, obviously. Underboss? No, clothing's too cheap, not enough jewelry to be that important. He had authority over the other two, and there were definitely two, they always worked in threes. Russians were new to this neighborhood, so he was a scout, a foot soldier, that'd report back on whatever he found. If he was trusted enough to scout out new territory, he was trusted enough with information as well. _

Here was my in, neatly tied to a table and already being tortured. I would actually have to thank Connor once I stopped being furious at him. I wouldn't even have to work very hard on this one.

_But honestly, leaving a mobster tied to my bar on fire?_

What kind of shit head does that?

"Come a step closer, Irish whore, and I-"

_Jesus was his accent thick. _

"You'll do what Boris? What exactly can you do until I put out the fire now consuming your ass and let you go? Stutter at me? That'll do a whole lot of damage, I assure you." I snapped, hopping onto a stool, and leaning my back against the bar. "So, Borris, what brings you here?"

"Old man's lease is up, don't play stupid."

"I didn't mean _here _here, Borris, I meant Boston. I mean, we have plenty of crime syndicates in Boston, but this is the first I've seen of the Russians trying to muscle their way in. Must be difficult to do, with the Italians and the Irish. They've practically got this city in a choke hold. So what's in it for the Soviets?"

"Untie me, cyka-"

"Ooh, tsk tsk, such language, do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Now Borris, I'm only trying to be civil, small talk and such, but you're making it difficult. I don't like difficult, and the more difficult you make it, the less I like you. Which isn't good for you Boris, because I don't untie people I don't like. In general, I just leave them for the police to scrape up in the morning. Answer the questions and I'll let you go."

Boris' face contorted for several seconds before he finally answered.

"America ees free market for people like us, not used to Russian system, easy pickings if that is how you say it."

"One more and you can go. You or your men kill an Irish errand boy lately?"

"No."

"Are you lying Boris?"

"Why would lie? Have fire to my ass, literally."

"Oh alright then." I dumped the ice out onto his ass and hopped off the barstool.

"Where are going? You said you'd untie me cyka-"

"Yet again with the language. There's a man with head trauma in the back room, so if you don't mind, I'll be taking care of him first before I get to you."

I rifled through the shelves until I found the gauze and medical tape.

"Shh, it's alright handsome, I'm just going to clean your head up a bit." I said, kneeling next to the nearly unconscious man and beginning to wrap his head in gauze. Once I was done, I returned to Boris.

"Alright Boris, you're buddy is almost in a coma, there's a hospital two blocks south of here that should be able to take care of him and you for that matter, but I want you to remember something. Next time, I'll leave you tied up, on fire and let you die." I said, cutting the ropes that bound his wrists with a box cutter I picked up in the back.

Boris nodded, he understood.

I watched as he struggled to get off of the bar and limped, cursing to the back where he picked up the other man and left by the back door.

_What the fuck have I gotten myself into?_


	4. Death by Toilet

Waking up the next morning was miserable.

My head pulsated.

_Perfect day to go to the police station._

I pulled on the cleanest clothes that were in arm's reach.

It ended up being a beat up pair of jeans and a red v-neck. I looked in the mirror and shrugged.

_It could've been worse._

Alright, I thought, belt, boots, jacket, go.

By 7:35 I was pulling into the police station's parking lot, and in spite of my mother's many warnings, I wasn't in the back of a squad car.

It was an eerie feeling, to walk into a bustling precinct room and not be in cuffs.

"And how can I help you this morning?" A cheerful, elderly secretary asked.

"I'm here to see Detective Butcher." I told her.

She smiled and pressed a few buttons on her phone.

"He's the third desk to the right, you here about the murders this morning?" She asked with a smile.

Which was creepy, because she was discussing murder.

"Ah no, not precisely."

"Oh, I see, here's your visitor's pass, you have a good day now."

I gave her a tight smile and entered the melee.

Detectives and uniforms alike were crowded into the main floor, talking amongst themselves. Phone cords were stretched across aisles and papers were passed back and forth like the impulses between neurons.

Butcher was, in fact, at the third desk to the left, typing steadily away at a large computer in a harried state.

I cleared my throat.

Butcher spun in his chair and his eyes shot open wide.

"You weren't sure I was going to show up." I said for him.

"Yeah, well, you know." Butcher's voice trailed off. "Oh, take a seat, Smecker'll be here soon and he won't appreciate you standing while he's talking."

_Oh to be the rookie._

I sat in the chair beside Butcher's desk and played with the ring on my middle finger, looking up at the ceiling with interest.

It got real quiet, real fast.

I shifted my eyes back to ground level and noticed a man with curly blonde hair in a khaki suit standing at one end of the room.

"First of all, I would like to thank whichever one of you doughnut munching, barrel assed, pod pulling, sissies leaked this to the press." He snarled.

I liked this Smecker already.

"That's just what we need. Some sensational story so the papers make these boys out to be superheros triumphing over evil. Let me squash the rumors now. These two are not heros, just two ordinary men who were put in an extraordinary situation and they just happened to get out on top. Yes, nothing from our far reaching computer system turned up diddly on these two, all we've gotten from the neighbors is that they're angels." Smecker made little angel wings out of his hands and fluttered for a few seconds. "And we've got two bodies in the morgue that look like they've been _serial crushed by some 'uge friggin guy._" Smecker seemed to be pointing these words at a detective at the front of the room, who in all honesty looked like a bonehead.

"Are we considering these guys armed and dangerous?" A uniform asked.

"Not armed, if they had guns they would've used them, but dangerous? Very."

"And what makes you think they're dangerous? Maybe they're just protecting each other." Another uniform said.

Smecker paused for a moment.

"Look, I'm not saying one way or the other, just be careful and go by the protocol on this."

The bonehead detective started talking again.

"These guys are miles away by now. You wanna beat yah head against the wall, this is what you're lookin' for. They're scared, like two little bunny rabbits. Anything in a uniform or flashing blue lights is gonna spook them, okay? The only thing we can do is put a potato on a string and drag it through South Boston, thanks for comin out!"

"You'd probably 'ave better luck wi' beer." A familiar voice commented.

My head spun around so fast, I hit Butcher in the face with my hair.

"T'would." Another voice agreed.

There they were, and they looked like shit. Bloodied bathrobes and everything. MacManus and MacManus were leaning on each other at the end of the aisle, Murphy carrying most of Connor's weight.

"You know those two or something?" Butcher asked.

"Maybe, but can you tell me what happened this morning?" I asked quickly.

"Oh, sure, two Russian mob guys were found dead in an alley, one with his head bashed in, the other, well, crushed to death. It got ruled a Federal so Agent Smecker got called in."

I kept my face blank, while internally there were expletives running through my head that would make Beelzebub blush.

_That pinko commie, rat faced, yellow livered, fucking-_

The twins were led into an interrogation room by Smecker, who drew the blinds as soon as they got inside.

"I see."

"So, do you have anything or...?" Butcher asked.

"It wasn't the Russians."

"Wait, how do you- Explain, please."

"I asked, he answered, fairly simple business."

"Who? Wait, what?"

"Not willing to say, but its reliable. The Russian's didn't do it."

"How do you know its reliable?"

"Well, he had a fire to his ass, literally." I said cryptically.

Realization dawned in Butcher's eyes.

"The Russian in the morgue."

I nodded.

"He said it had nothing to do with the Russians?"

"Yep, also, as forewarning, you'll be having an influx of Russian wise-guys pretty soon, the guy I talked to was a scout looking for open territory."

"But if the Irish and Italians get into a war over who killed Murphy, won't that free up a large amount of the city?" Butcher asked, clearly trying to get over the shock of his first revelation.

"You're forgetting that mob ties run deeper than just what neighborhood they happen to be in. Even if the Italians and Irishmen get to it, their territory isn't just up for the taking. It's been on either side for decades, if not centuries."

"So we're right back to where we started." Butcher sighed.

This was all very odd to me.

_It was odd to Butcher too, by the looks of him. _

I cleared my throat. "Hm, how exactly is this going to work out? I'm not exactly used to police procedural per say."

"Oh, you'll be considered a consulting detective, receive payment once the case is finished and all that, but for all intents and purposes you'll work like any other detective, only without a badge or a gun and if you want to keep working for the Boston P.D you'll have to get certified as a P.I."

"Let's see how this one turns out first, Jimmy." I muttered at the ceiling.

"What we have so far is that Liam was involved in the Brother's Trinity," Butcher shot a glance my way, as if to say 'you lied and I know it'. I shrugged and kept my face impassive. "He died of a single gunshot wound to the back of the head. His body was then dragged to a nearby dumpster and found the next morning by a drunken homeless man. His mother says he was out getting groceries."

"Can I see the crime scene photos?"

Butcher tossed a file to me.

I paged through it.

"You mind if I take these?"

"He might not, but I do." Agent Smecker said, standing slightly over me, hands on his hips, face expectant.

"Ah, Paul Smecker meet Sara O'Byron, O'Byron meet Paul." Butcher offered in way of introduction.

I raised an eyebrow at him and offered my hand.

"O'Byron you say? Not Marcus O'Byron's k-"

"No, my father was a longshoreman." I cut Smecker off.

_No point in bringing that up to the FBI._

The agent finally took my outstretched hand and shook it.

"Well Ms. O'Byron, I was wondering if, after I take care of the press, you and I could have a little chat."

The way he said it was pleasant enough, but its meaning was obvious. Stay here, don't even think about running.

He came back a few minutes later and directed me towards a corner office.

"Never mind the decor, I've commandeered this from the Captain." Smecker explained, as I glanced at the photos of an old white guy in dress blues shaking hands with the mayor, city councilmen and other higher level bureaucratic fucks. "Sit, please, I'm not here to interrogate you."

I took a seat in front of the large oak desk and kicked my feet up.

_Not the most respectful thing, but eh. _

"You're father was no longshoreman." Smecker stated.

"No, no he was not." I agreed with a rueful smile.

"And something gives me the feeling you're no ordinary bartender." Smecker lit a cigarette and exhaled. "So, what can you tell about me?"

"Wait, what?"

_Where the hell did that come from?_

"Well go on. Butcher told me about your special little gift, so don't act dumb, not that you could if you tried, what can you tell me?"

I wasn't used to just doing it on command.

I considered him for a second.

_Well you're gay. Big surprise there, Mr. Seersucker and gingham. Not from New England, not from the South, so Florida? Florida, the tan's a life-long one, I can see the blotches from natural sunlight, no tan lines around the watch or anything for that matter. Cufflinks, tie and watch are all utilitarian, but had clean lines that lent them aesthetics as well. So you like simple things, you're organized, neat, precise, and sharp. Too sharp sometimes. You overthink things in your obsession to detail. _

"Isn't a gay man from Miami a bit of a cliche now a days?" I asked.

"It's Tampa Bay, but good, very good. I can see why Butcher wants you to work this one with him, but what I'm concerned with is why you want to work this one." Smecker said taking another drag off of his cigarette.

"If you don't mind me asking, why do you care?" I tried to ask politely. It came out more hostile than intended.

"Butcher's father used to work for us, now he's a Distritct Attorney, he asked me to look after him."

"Makes sense." I shrugged. "I'm working this case because I took care of Liam when we were kids, and I guess this is me taking care of him now."

_His mother used to work the night shift, and we lived in the same building. Ma had already gone off the deep end at that point. I was seven when the factory caught fire one night, and Mrs. Murphy had shoved a squealing toddler into my arms. "You take care o' him, an' be a good girl, alright Sara?" She told me as she grabbed her coat from the rack. "Jus' till I get back." I had just nodded back then, and looked at the four year old wailing his eyes out in my arms. "So, Potato-head, what am I gonna do with you?" _

"And the MacManus twins?"

"Old friends, regulars at my uncle's place." I watched Smecker's face for a second. "You're not charging them are you?" I asked with a laugh.

"Simple matter of self defence, you can see them if you want."

"Only if your boys aren't fawning all over them already." I laughed.

"One last thing before you leave, how is it you never went to college? Both you and the boys are smarter than all of them combined." Smecker said with a gesture to the rows of desks outside.

"Always comes down to the money, doesn't it? An' you can't blame them, a diet of doughnuts and bad coffee'll rot anyone's brain."

Smecker laughed and shook his head.

"You really can't, can you? Pleasure meeting you Ms. O'Byron, I look forward to working with you in the future." He said with a knowing look.

I left the office perplexed.

"How'd it go?" Butcher asked.

"Well enough, D.A's boy." I smirked, grabbing the case file off his desk, and starting to walk away.

"Wait, where are you going?" He called after me.

"Back to the alley." I said, spinning on my toe and giving a short little salute.

I followed the signs down to holding and stifled a laugh at the sound of the boys roaring at each other.

_Everywhere, anywhere, all those two could do was argue. _

They were seated on two cots they had pulled together at the center of the cell, with two uniforms who looked like giddy school girls just to be sitting next to him.

"You know," I said leaning against the open doorway, "This kind of adoration really isn't good for their egos."

"Sara!" Murphy bellowed and rushed me, picking me up by the waist and spinning me around. "Ye' won't believe th' shit we've been through."

Connor stood laughing while I was swung around like a rag doll.

"Murph! Put me down and I promise to listen to every exaggerated detail."

"Exaggerated? Why in the 'ell would we exaggerate?"

"Le' the lady down, ye ogre, an' I'm bettin she'll answer."

"Ah fine." Murphy huffed. "Boys, would ya' give us a minute?"

The uniforms nodded.

"Oh sure."

"Not a problem."

_Looks like they've got a fan club president and vice president already. _

I rolled my eyes as the officers left and Murph collapsed onto one of the cots.

"Boys, would ya' give us a minute? Boys, would you shine ou' shoes? Boys, would you fetch a crumpet or two? Boys, would you ge' the duvet?" I mocked, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall.

"Hey now girlie, we earned all o' this!"

"Oh yes Connor, you put a lot of thought and consideration into all of this." I smirked.

"More thought an' consideration than you put int' cuttin' tha' Russian lunatic free and bandagin' him!" Connor shot back.

"I set him free because **you **tied him to the bar and **SET HIM ON FIRE**! I thought after a night like that the guy deserved a break for fuck's sake!"

"A break? You thin' he deserved a break!? What in the fuck- He was a Russian Mafioso who tried to kick **your** uncle out of 'is bar! Where **you **work! What was I supposed to do? Let him kick my ass?"

"You weren't supposed to light him on fire and leave me to deal with!" I pushed myself off the wall and rounded on him.

"Yeh told me t' go home! You mad, lunatic woman!" Connor yelled, his hands in his hair.

"Well, aren' you two jus' the sweetest thing." Murphy muttered.

"Shut it!" Both me and Connor snapped at him.

"I told you to go home because I was angry!"

"I said I was sorry!"

"Sorry don't exactly cut it! I had to put out a fire on a man's ass! Not near, not by, **ON**, on his actual ass!"

"Yeah, and than's to you I had to drop a toilet on his fat, fucking head!"

I tried to take it all in stride but failed miserably.

"YOU DID WHAT?"

"Jay-sus woman! Didn't you see the news?"

"No! You know I don't have a television! And I knew you had killed the two Russians, but you used a toilet?!"

"Aye, jumped off th' top of the fuckin' building an' everythin." Murph said with a smile a mile wide.

I pressed a hand to my forehead, the other to my hip and closed my eyes.

_The top of a fucking building._

He jumped off the top of a fucking building.

"Sara? Y' alright?"

"Just- Just give me a second to comprehend things."

After a few moments of silence, I dragged a hand over my face and sighed.

"Well, it could've been worse. I mean, death by toilet aint' so bad." I said, fighting the urge to laugh until my sides ached.

Connor rolled his eyes while Murphy's laughter began to resemble more a roar than an actual laugh. I gave in once tears started springing from Murph's eyes.

"You two, are both the most irresponsible people I 'ave ever met, I mean, I coulda died-" A laugh escaped Connor's lips. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I coulda died, and all yeh two can do is laugh like ol' biddies!"

Once the laughter had died down and Murph had preoccupied himself with Liam's case file, I finally sat down.

"I'm glad you're not dead." I told Connor.

"Tha' makes two of us, believe me."


	5. Jagged Edges

The alley was just a hop skip and a jump away.

_Convenient. _

I dug a cigarette out of the pack and let it hang off of my lips for a second before lighting it.

It wasn't much to look at, the alley, it was just as grimey and gray as the one before it. I scanned the outlines of the buildings on either side.

Tennent house and a warehouse.

_Fan-fucking-tastic._

I blocked out the white noise behind me, the roar of car engines, the insipid chatter of people as they passed by, unaware.

_Funny, how this city can hide its jagged edges. _

Less than three days ago there was a body lying here and now we walked pass without a care in the world.

I pulled out the case file and grimaced. Some of the images weren't the easiest on the eyes. The cause of death was familiar enough. A single shot to the back of the head was the mob equivalent to meat and potatoes.

_You'd think they'd get a little imaginative now and then._

It exited through his neck, leaving his face undamaged.

I was oddly grateful for that.

_The shit I used to give him for that nose of his. _

Name: Murphy, William J.

Found: Alley, 3181 Horadan St. Boston, Massachusetts. 3:43 am. 3/17/93

Cause of Death: Single GSW, back of the head

Age: 22

Gender: Male

Height: 6' 2"

Weight: 145 lbs.

Possessions: One (1) pocket knife, black plastic handle, steel blade. One (1) leather wallet containing: State of Massachusetts Drivers License (active), Forty seven (47) U.S. dollars (one 20 dollar bill, two 10 dollar bills, one 5 dollar bill, two singles), Two (2) betting slips from Suffolk Downs worth $25 (3/1/93, 3/7/93). One (1) watch (leather strap, gold body, on person). One (1) blue button up shirt (on person). One (1) white undershirt (on person). One (1) pair of khaki slacks (on person). One (1) leather belt, brass buckle (on person). One (1) pair of leather work boots (on person). One (1) driving cap, grey, wool, (on person).

I shut the file and sniffed back the tears that had crept up on me.

_No time for that. _

Making my way down the alley, I found the open dumpster Liam had been tossed in and crouched down on the ground beside it. I ran my fingers behind one locked wheel, then another, and another, and finally the last.

"Suck it, D.A's boy!" I muttered in triumph, working the chunk of ridged metal free from where it was stuck fast.

_He never did leave home without a key. _

I held it up and cleaned the grime off of it with my thumb.

The dull brass flashed in the afternoon sun.

Residential, definitely.

I pocketed the key and stood, brushing off the dirt as I went.

I looked around the alley again.

There was something off about the wall at the end. Something caught my eye, but I couldn't put a finger on it.

I walked towards it, tilting my head to the side, brow furrowing.

_What the hell is that?_

My spine stiffened.

I had overlooked something. Something major.

A hand shot out, clamping over my mouth and dragging me back towards its owner.

"Well, well, if it ain't O'Byron Jr.? Tell me, d'yah think daddy'd be proud if he saw yous now?"

My arms were still free, but the muzzle of a gun had been shoved unceremoniously into the small of my back.

_A .44 Magnum to be precise. _

Idiot.

Men with guns had the situational awareness of a wounded hippopotamus on the Serengeti.

"Now you walk along nice-like and we won't be havin' problems." The man muttered, urging me forward, further into the alley.

"Hmm, that might be a problem, see, I don't do nice-like."

I took an inhale.

My elbow collided with his diaphragm, heels with his feet, that cracked under the weight of my boots. I spun around and swung.

BOOM.

My fist collided with his face a second later.

My ears were ringing and my head spinning. The world seemed to be continuously flipping upside down and then right side up over and over and over.

_Well fuck, I've been shot. _

My knees gave out and I hit the cement.

The man sighed and knelt down next to me.

"You swing pretty well fer' a girl. Almost got me with the right 'ook. Your da' had a mean right hand too, didn't serve 'im too well in the end, but-" The man shrugged as if to say it was all water under the bridge now.

I worked a hand into my pocket and began to slide the cold metal and plastic out into my palm.

"I'm sorry I 'ave to do this, but yeh either had to come silent or yeh had to be dead." He pulled the Magnum level to my forehead, muttering a quick Hail Mary.

It flicked open with a faint click.

The man didn't notice.

"Goodbye Lil' Sara, you'll be seeing your bastard da' soon." He pulled back the hammer.

_Lil' Sara. _

I made a fist around the handle and drove the blade as far as I could into the exposed jointure of his neck and shoulder.

All I could see was red.

Red, red, red.

The man fell over, limply crashing back onto the pavement.

_Lil' Sara. _

I clawed my way backwards, away from the man, away from the red.

_The door was open, angry voices issuing from it. My five-year-old self couldn't contain the curiosity. I peeked from the shadows. Men had all seemed like giants back then. They towered in front of the kitchen table. _

I kept moving, until my ass hit the road, falling off the curb.

"_You sure about this O'Byron? This could cost us everything!" My father had ignored the man in front of him, having caught sight of my tiny little hand as it whipped back from the edge of the door. "Sara," He called. "Sara, come back, its alright. I want you to meet someone." I padded warily into the room. It was far past my bedtime, I was worried I'd get a lashing. My father picked me up and sat me on his knee. "Sara, I want you to meet your uncle Charlie. He works with me on the docks." The angry man's face fell. He bent down to my level with a small smile. "Hi Lil' Sara, has anyone told yeh, yeh have the prettiest eyes they've seen?" _

I scrambled to my feet, my head still swimming.

"Get out of the road! What? Are you mad?" A man on the sidewalk yelled. I turned to face him, and he paled, muttering "Christ have mercy" before scurrying off.

I stumbled into a phone booth and fumbled with the quarters. I reached for the dial and pain shot and wrenched its way up my left arm. I held the receiver to my ear with my shoulder, dialed with my right, and slumped against the wall.

_Lil' Sara. _

"H-h-hello?"

"Doc, I-" My voice broke hideously.

"S-s-sara? Wha-at's-s wrong?"

I breathed in, out, and tried again.

"Doc, I think I killed someone."


	6. Theodore Angus and Margaret Eileen

I stepped out of the shower and cleared the fog off of the mirror.

After nearly scrubbing my face off, the red was gone.

I searched my face in the mirror, looking for any specks left over.

_Left over._

"Shit!" I hissed, grabbing a towel and hastily drying my hair and yanking my clothes on.

I fumbled with my bomber jacket and practically flew out my front door.

"S-s-sara! Where' yeh goin?!" Doc called from across the street in front of the bar.

"I'll tell you later! Promise!" I yelled back over my shoulder, taking off down the street.

I slowed down to a brisk walk when I began encountering other people and they started to stare at me strangely.

I skidded to a stop in front of the yellow tape, which was still up despite the lack of police present.

_Two bodies within 48 hours and they're already gone? No wonder we're having issues…_

I ducked under the tape, I retraced my steps until I found the spot that gave me the view of the alley's back wall that had perplexed me so.

_And led to me getting shot._

I glanced over my shoulder this time before walking on.

A take out container.

That's what caught my eye.

_A freaking take out container. _

I growled and spun on my heel, slamming it into the cement in frustration.

Something snuffled behind me.

_Snuffled? Since when did anything in an alley snuffle?_

I turned slowly.

There it was again, followed by a small whine.

My eyebrows furrowed together, as I slowly walked towards the red printed white cardboard.

It whimpered and pressed itself closer to the alley wall, cowering away from me.

_A mutt. _

A cute little, curly haired, black mutt with white paws and a little blaze.

"Shh, come here little guy, I'm assuming you're a guy, everyone always does, funny how that works out, since technically you have a fifty-fifty chance." I rambled on, crouching next to the little waif of a dog. "Anyways, it's alright, uh- buddy? No, you're not a Buddy. You need something fierce. Something proud and tough. Theodore? Angus? You'll excuse me if I sound ridiculous, I'm a bit intoxicated right now."

I had a beer or two or three once Butcher had let me go.

"Colin? O'Brien? Are you gonna give me anything? No, well, I supposed you're a dog so that's expected." I gathered him up into my jacket. He curled up under my good arm. The left gave a twinge as I stood up.

_Stupid gun shot wound. _

"How about all four? Theodore Angus Colin O'Brien. Taco for short. See? I told you I was intoxicated." I sighed, ducking back under the yellow tape.

A woman passing by stopped dead in her tracks.

I kept walking, continuously talking to the little lump in my jacket as it snuffled and yipped in response.

I skipped happily down the stairs to the bar and opened the door with a shove.

"Oh Doc," I singsonged, looking down at Taco. "Guess what I found?"

"If it's not a 40, y'can put it back."

She sat there like a day hadn't passed.

I brushed past and found Doc in the speakeasy.

"Doc, look, ain't he cute?"

I produced Taco from my jacket, but Doc just looked at me with pleading eyes.

"I told yeh' she wouldn't be interested in seein' me." My mother called from the bar.

I exhaled loudly through my nose and closed my eyes for a second.

I shoved Taco into Doc's arms.

"I'm doing this cuz' you asked me, you remember that." I told him before walking back to the main room.

"Sara, dearie, come sit with dear ol' mum."

"I'd rather be stuck on a rotisserie spit in hell." I muttered.

"Wha' was that? I couldn't hear yeh, love."

"Nothing." I crossed over and sat down.

She was as thin as I remembered, though some pudge was beginning to form around her middle, and her face was as regal as ever. Her cheekbones belonged in an old story Doc told me about Queen Maeve when I was a kid. But she was drawn out somehow, stretched by age and wear. Her green eyes, once so sharp, were dull and glossy, faded by some unnamable force.

_Well, actually, __**it **__had a name. _

"I hear you killed somebody this mornin'." Was her way of starting conversation.

"Technically it was after noon, 1: 23 to be precise." I corrected.

"Charles Dolan, right?"

I nodded and she continued.

"Good, bastard had it coming."

Silence fell, and I could feel her annoyance grow.

Silence.

My family was good at silence.

When the noise came, and it always came, it was a roaring, seething, anger that flew out of nowhere.

Which is why, I figure, I'm so fucking blunt to everyone besides **her**.

Shadows and lies had their uses, but in all honesty, I was sick of them.

"Is tha' all there is then?" My mother asked.

It was almost a sneer.

"Yeah, Ma, that's all there is."

"Now you look 'ere, Sara Grainne, I didn' haul my ass down 'ere to have you jus' bob yer head and send me off!"

"I didn't ask you here, you brought yourself." I kept my voice impassive.

My mother gave a low laugh and shook her head in fake amusement.

"You and yer fuckin' neutrality. It's like tryin' to talk to Switzerland! Even when your father died-"

I blocked out the rest of her words.

It really was better that way.

_My father's funeral wasn't a very large affair. There was a priest, and a man to carry an urn they poured his ashes into, my mother, me, and Doc. The rest of them faded into the background. My mother wore a veil like she was fucking Jackie-O and not some South Boston, Irish trash. I picked at the sleeves of the dress she had forced me into all day. The father's voice was high pitched and nasal and it droned on for what seemed like an eternity. He talked of sheep and goats and God knows what other farm animals. "It is said in the Bible, that the Lord's sheep go to heaven, Marcus O'Byron, was in all terms, a member of the Lord's flock." He made us sing, he made us pray, it had gone kneel, stand, kneel, stand, and by the time it was over I had felt empty. Not sad, not grief-ridden, just empty. I had refused to sing when they started up Amazing Grace. There was nothing to make the air in my lungs form words. I had refused to speak for weeks. I had forced my face into a brick wall of empty. "Why can't you just be a normal child and fucking CRY for once!" My mother had roared at me after we had returned home. She hadn't noticed the rain falling on my shoes when they put him in the church wall. _

"Sara? Are yeh listenin' t' me?!"

I took a steadying inhale.

This was my mother.

I could be reasonable.

"No."

"No what?"

"No, I'm not listening to you."

_You hag. _

I kept that bit to myself.

This was my mother.

I could be reasonable.

"Well unblock yer ears and start! I was sayin' that even when your da' up and left us, Good Lord rest his soul," My mother made the sign of the cross. I did not follow suit. "you were jus' like this, and now yer Uncle Charlie's dead an' yer doing th' same. I'm yer mother Sara, yeh can talk to me."

"Oh yes, Ma, because that went soooo well the first time."

The booze and the mother and the red, _the red_, had begun to finally wear at my sanity.

"Don' you take tha' tone with me, Sara Grainne." My mother warned.

"I'll take whatever tone I want, thank you very much, Margaret Eileen."

My mother looked as if she'd been slapped.

I laughed under my breath, walked behind the bar and pulled out another beer.

_Probably shouldn't, but its my mother._

I had to be reasonable.

There was no way in hell I could survive this on only a buzz.

"Now yer jus' bein childish." My mother scoffed.

"Please, Ma, tell me what you know of children. Oh? What's that? Nothing? Surely, Ma, you must know something, but Oh! that's right, I remember now. You never cared much for children, much less your own!." I laughed.

The booze was getting to me.

It was definitely just the booze.

_No lingering resentment here!_

Mother's face contorted in anger.

"You liddle, ingrateful, simperin'-"

"What, Ma? What am I?"

"Fool." My mother spat, turning heel and marching out of the door angrily.

I started to laugh and just kept going, leaning my elbows against the bar and running my hands through my wet hair.

"W-w-well, Fuck! that went Ass! well." My uncle called from the speakeasy.

"Ass well as we could've hoped for Doc." I quipped.

I felt the tension leave my muscles slowly until I was back to the punch-happy version of myself I was earlier.

Doc walked in, holding the mutt away from him as if it was something alien.

"W-w-why am I ho-ho-holding a Fuck! Ass! d-d-dog?"

I walked out from behind the bar and took the dog from him.

"I found him in the alley, he was what distracted me." I turned Taco to face me. "Ain't that right Tac- I need a better name for you. Teddy? We'll go with Teddy."

Doc shook his head in bemusement.

"He-he-he'll piss all o're yer apartment if yer na' car-car-careful." He warned, shambling back into the speakeasy to work on whatever mad scientist-alcoholic concoction he was working on now.

"Let's get you set up Tac- Teddy" I corrected myself. "Teddy."

Teddy yawped and batted a paw near my face.

"Watch it, mutt, just cus' I got shot because of you don't mean I'll hesitate to put you back in that alley." I narrowed my eyes at the ball of black fur.

He licked my face happily, blissfully unaware.

_LIfe could've been worse. He could've been a cat. _


	7. Interlude

That night, in all honesty, I drank my feelings.

I drank until all the black spots that had begun to plague my vision swallowed it whole.

I drank until I was empty.

I drank until a pair of arms lifted me from the cement steps and carried me home.


	8. Marty McFly

I woke to Teddy's wet nose on mine.

I shuffled outside with the dog and winced at the glaring sunlight.

_Of course he had to get up at five in the morning. _

Teddy finished and I shuffled back inside with him.

There was a note on the kitchen table.

Sara-

You passed out last night, so I took you home,

hope you don't mind. Nice dog by the way.

Affetto,

Connor

I gave a small smile, then corrected myself and yanked the fridge door open.

Orange juice, beer, left over stew, more beer, eggs, ham, cheese, butter, but no milk.

I wrote a quick note on the back of the one Connor left.

_See?_ I told myself. _If I use it as a utilitarian object it doesn't mean anything. _

I fried some eggs and unfolded my newspaper.

_Eight Dead In Largest Mass Murder City Has Ever Seen _

The giant photo that graced the front page was grisly, even in black and white.

Eight Russian pricks with shiny bits of metal in their blown out eye sockets.

_To pay the boatman. _

I read the rest of the article and turned to the crossword as the phone rang.

"Ello' ?" I answered, a piece of toast hanging out of my mouth.

"O'Byron, we've got a problem."

"Good morning to you too Butcher, so nice of you to call, I'm doing fine by the way, thank you for asking."

The toast was still clamped in my jaw, so it came out a bit muffled.

"Quit shittin' around, O'Byron."

"Fine, what's it now?"

"Everything mob related has been pulling its sorry ass off the street, I mean, I don' blame 'em after what just happened but we're gonna run out of leads real quick if we don't get moving."

"Whoa, what just happened?" I asked, brow furrowing.

"Don't you own a television?"

"No, rots your brains."

Butcher exhaled angrily. "Three guys got shot on Lakeview. Broad daylight and everything."

I checked the clock in the kitchen, 6:42 am.

"Well, fuck."

"I know, looks like Smecker's mob theory just got blown to pieces."

"Theory?"

"On the eight dead Russians, all had mob ties thicker than- well, they were pretty high up, so Smecker figured- hey, speaking of which, you got any theories?" Butcher asked, the excitement clear in his voice.

"Hmm, and here I was thinking that I was working the case of Liam Murphy and not the case of the Dead Russian Assholes."

"I was just asking, Jeesh, I'm going to give Jack Moran another visit before he crawls into a sewer, you alright enough to come with?" Butcher asked.

"Nope, sorry, can't. I'm running down a different" _And much more promising._ "angle." I said, picking up the manila envelope that held the key from the crime scene.

"Angle? What angle?"

"You might want to get a better geek squad." I advised.

"O'Byron." Butcher warned.

"Alright, alright, ruin my fun. I found a key under the dumpster."

"You sure its his?"

"Yup, it was the only thing missing from his possessions."

"I'm going to kill Larry." Butcher muttered.

"Now, now, you're still just the newbie, the old hands wouldn't take too kindly to a dead techie."

"Alright, when you're done, call me, and be careful, we don't want a repeat performance of your close combat skills." Butcher instructed.

"Aye aye, Captain." I gave a mock salute with my half-eaten toast.

Butcher hung up.

I set the receiver down.

"Well Teddy, time to see a locksmith."

I found one in the yellow pages fairly close by.

I checked the address again and knocked on the door.

The glass had been blocked with cardboard.

_Well, that's reassuring. _

There was no answer.

I rapped on the glass again before stuffing my hands in my jacket pockets and knocking the sole of my boot against the edge of a brick.

"The door's fucking open!" A voice called from inside.

I pushed the door open and was greeted by a wall of dark.

I let my eyes adjust for a few seconds.

Music was filtering from a back room.

_**Set me free, why don't cha, baby**_

_**Get out my life, why don't cha, baby**_

_**'Cause you don't really love me**_

I meandered my way back, avoiding large piles of papers, books, and the occasional milk crate. Metal parts were strewn about, and the workbench was covered in iron filings and cast off wax. I flipped the key through my fingers absentmindedly.

_**You just keep me hangin' on**_

_**You don't really need me**_

_**But you keep me hangin' on**_

_**You don't really need me**_

_**But you keep me hangin' on.**_

_Odd. _

I got to another door and shoved it open with my foot.

A hazy cloud of smoke drifted out, illuminated by a single beam of sunlight from a high up window. A man was seated behind a wooden table, his feet kicked up, arms folded.

"Can' I 'elp you?" He asked in a thick Cockney accent.

_It matched his punk-ass clothes and neon mohawk. The diamond in his nose glittered in the dim light. This guy listens to the Supremes? Well, that was unexpected. Hard to tell in this light, but he was about the color of the belly of a fish. Didn't see sunlight much. His arms were free from scars, tattoos as well. Two fake teeth, but no Boxer's fractures. He got beat up a lot. Judging from the wear on the enamel, it was a while ago. So a lover not a fighter. Slight jaundice, but that could be from a plethora of explanations. Most likely, from the sucker sticking out of his mouth, kidney damage. Diabetic. Threat posed: limited. _

I tossed the key on the table.

"You're a locksmith, right?"

"I'll be whatever you want love." He said with a loose grin.

"Can you find the lock that it goes to?"

"Well, not the specific lock, no, you'll have to do the ah," He eyed me up and down. "leg work on your own. I can find the building easy enough."

"Great, I'll be back in an hour."

"Whoa, wait jus' a second love," He folded his legs off the table, the front legs of his chair hitting the ground with a dull thud. "I can't jus' find it in an hour. D'you think I'm Sherlock Holmes or some shit?"

"No, I think you're lazy. Come on, chap, get a little excited! You're helping me find a murderer!"

"Murderer!? Love, are you barking?"

"I prefer determined, but to each his own. See, I got shot finding this key, so you'll excuse me if I'm in a bit of a rush."

"Name?" He asked, with faked derision.

His eyes told a completely different story. He looked impressed, and vaguely frightened.

"Sara O'Byron."

"Alfred Wooster." He said, offering a hand.

"Like Jeeves and Wooster?" I asked, taking it.

"Ha. Ha. You're a real crack up love." He deadpanned.

I shrugged.

Wooster produced a large and heavy book from somewhere behind him and began to page through it.

"Feel free to sit down." He said as an afterthought, waving a hand towards a rickety stool in the corner. I sat down and scuffed my feet on a rung.

"Why the Supremes?" I asked, pulling the note out of my pocket, folding it and unfolding it.

_Something to do with my hands. _

"Why not love? They sing like angels." Wooster answered, his face practically embedded in the book's spine, spinning the key around on the table with his left index finger.

"Point conceded."

"An' this murderin' business? What's up with that?" He asked after a few seconds of silence.

"Friend of mine."

"A friend o' yours killed somebody?" He asked, perplexed.

"No, he's the one who's dead." I gave a wry smile.

"Oh, sorry for your loss love. Was he killed in the vigilante shit storm?"

"Before it, the police are convinced its only mob business, but something, something makes me think it was personal."

"An' what would that be?"

"There's no reason for the mob to kill him."

"It's the mob, love, d'they need a reason?" He asked with a laugh.

"In this case, yes. He was one of them. So the Irish didn't do it, the Russians don't have the manpower, and the Italians, well, fuck the Italians."

In my mind, however, I was beginning to doubt myself. I had no proof that this wasn't mob shit, for fuck's sake, I had been shot by some Irish knuckler, _Uncle Charlie_, for just showing up at the scene.

"That, that is some heavy shit love."

"Tell me about it." I said with a snort.

"Alright, 'ere it is, now all I 'ave to do is get the listings for local tenements-" Wooster muttered to himself, spinning in his chair, searching the stacks of papers around him.

"Have you thought about a computer?" I asked.

Wooster sniffed. "Don't trust machines, can't see where them brains are."

He flipped through a few more piles of paper before giving an exaggerated "Eureka!" He uncapped a pen and circled a few numbers. "There y'are, love, I'd try the circled ones first, they've all recently asked for new keys to old locks that match the make and model of your key." He handed the paper and the key over with a grin. "Anything else I can d'for you love?"

"Nope, this is it for now, thanks Wooster."

I looked over the list.

Five.

_Not too bad then. _

By the third tenant house, I was cursing those words.

"Thanks for your time anyways." I smiled to the super, taking the key back.

I let out a string of expletives when I got to my car, kicking the front left tire in frustration.

"Fuck! Ass! Shit! Fucking fuck!" Each word was emphasized by a dull thunk of shoe hitting rubber.

I ran my good hand over my face and yanked the Skylark's driver's side door open.

The sun was going down by the time I reached the fourth stop.

_Please, dear baby Jesus Lord, let this be the one._

"Hi." I waved to the super behind a plexiglass wall.

"Hi." He grunted back.

"I'm wondering if you could help me, see I found this key outside your building and I'd like to return it."

Walrus-stache gave another grunt and began to rifle through a file of paper.

_How charmingly loquacious. _

"Numbers 23, 117, and 346 have reported missing keys."

"And could I get any names?"

Walrus-stache shrugged and turned his back to me.

_He didn't even know his tenants' names. _

23, 117 and 346.

I rapped on 23, before taking a step back and rubbing my temples.

_Should've left this to Butcher. _

"What is it?" An old granny asked, holding the door open.

_She was alone, that much was obvious. There was the sound of the nightly news on in the background, but the smell of food cooking was lacking. She was making dinner for one._

The microwave pinged in the kitchen.

"Sorry, wrong apartment." I smiled and left.

I felt bad, she never had any visitors, even though she had three grown children. Their faces had stared down at me from the left wall of the entry way.

117 was occupied by a young black woman and her three small children.

She was making red beans and rice.

_Not from around here, then, but still holding onto home. Wonder what brought her north. Her husband was in prison. His photo graced the entryway, even though no men's outerwear was on the coatrack. His picture was behind a photo of a smiling grandma and a group of smiling women. If he was dead, it would've been in front. _

We exchanged pleasantries and I moved on.

346 was on the top floor of the building.

I leaned against the opposing wall and knocked lazily.

80's rock blared.

I knocked harder.

Still no reply.

"DELIVERY!" I yelled at the top of my lungs.

The music cut off and then there was the sound of a dead bolt being drawn back, and two more locks coming undone.

_This was the one. _

I waited for the sound of the doorknob to turn and kicked the green painted plywood in.

_Butcher told me to be careful, so-_

I grabbed the guy's wrist and twisted it behind his back.

_I was being careful. _

He yelped in pain as I gave his arm a twist, and kicked the door closed.

He was barely a few inches taller than me, his shoulders thin and slumped under a ratty gray t-shirt.

_He was just a kid. _

I let go of his arm and shoved him forward.

"Don't kill me! Please! I had no idea he fucked her! Please-"

"Excuse me?"

The kid whipped around, shocked at the sound of my voice.

"I, uh-" The kid gulped visibly.

"Sit." I directed him, pointing to an armchair that was oozing its stuffing.

He followed obediently.

There was a beat up couch, a cardboard box for a table, an old TV, and an ancient gaming system attached to it.

"Alright kid, what's your name?" I asked, taking a seat on the couch.

"Marty, uh Martin Watts." His eyes darted around the room, like a caged animal.

"Marty, you were friends with Liam Murphy, right?"

"Yeah." McFly's face fell. "He lives-lived here."

_Well, at least he knew Liam was dead. _

"Just then," I pointed to the door. "You were going on about someone fucking someone. What was that about?"

"Liam, uh, well, uh, he-screwing-Elaine." He said it all in one breath, as if the faster he said it, the less offensive it would be.

"Alright, we'll talk that through later-"

_Once you calm down, ferret eyes. _

"Marty, what can you tell me about what Liam did for a living?"

"He was an errand boy, like me, for you know, the Irish mob, and stuff."

"Jesus, what is it with you children and the mob? Work for a grocer, I told him. Work on the docks, I told him, but did he fucking listen? No, instead-"

"Wait, you knew Liam?!" McFly interrupted.

"No, Marty, I just kicked down your door for shits and giggles."

"No! I know you!" Marty bounced in his seat, pointing at my face.

_Jesus, the kid needed a Xanax. Or several. _

"He had a picture of you an' him on his dresser! You're Sara, his older sister, right?"

"You could say that."

"Which is funny, cuz you're like ten times more attractive than he was-" Marty rambled on.

"Kid!"

He jumped.

"I need you to focus. Did anything happen on one of Liam's jobs?"

"No, no, Liam was moving up the ranks. That's what's so weird about-" His voice fell off.

"About him being dead?" I offered.

"Yeah, Dolan even said Liam had a future in the big time, was looking into making him a knuckler or even letting him run some of his own operations down at the docks."

My spine stiffened.

_The docks. _

_Liam was becoming- _

_No. Stop. Stop that right now. _

"And you, Marty?" I asked, clearing my throat.

"I, oh, well, I'm only good at picking the odd lock or two." Marty said sheepishly.

"One last thing, McFly, and I'll be off."

"McFly?" Marty asked, confused.

"Don't worry about it kid, this Elaine, does she have a last name?"

"Oh, yeah, Buchanan, Elaine Buchanan."

I struggled to keep my face impassive as I stood and started for the door.

"It, it was nice to meet you!" Marty called.

I gave a noncommittal grunt and rounded the stairs.


End file.
